


Scuffed Leather

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Biker AU, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Rocker AU, What peaceful old souls these boys have, brief and vague allusion to period specific homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't their normal routine where they stop, chat, then head off with Ross riding on the back of Smith's to find somewhere to teach Ross. He can feel anticipation, nerves, rolling off the brunet, no matter how well-schooled his expression is. Ross has known him, been so close to him, for too long.</p><p>"Come on, sunshine." Trott proffers his hand to Ross, their combined effort pulling him to standing in a fluid shared movement. Trott doesn't step back, stays just a touch too close for what's considered acceptable in their society. Ross feels an almost physical compulsion to step back, but he resists - it takes all his willpower, but he resists - and the brunet smiles up at him in reassurance, sweet, warm. It makes Ross ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scuffed Leather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0palsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0palsea/gifts).



> A belated birthday present for 0palsea. Enjoy mate!

It's a Friday evening, one of the first truly autumnal weeks having passed the week previous, and there's a nip in the air, a sharp edge you could easily be in ignorance of if all you looked for were clear skies and a brilliant sun. The leaves are shifting though, greens to richer hues, scarlet, gold, and chocolate. It's been about a year since he returned to this place, for school and family and other obligations that wear on Ross' soul like sandpaper, force his shoulders back and his spine straight so he appears in some way capable of dealing with it all. 

He's glad though. Glad he's had this chance to start anew. To see Kim again, her friend Duncan, to become friends with them - in Kim's case, for the second time. He never got to witness her shift into something altogether even more interesting, but he's sure as hell gonna stay and be in awe of her now. She's never been just a girl in his head, but there are layers and complexities to her now that serve to reinforce how she is unique. How does she do it? How does she balance her grades and her gang, the expectations put on her and the life she wants to lead? He loves her dearly, always has, but only ever as he would a sister. He's come to terms with himself now, is sure she has, too. 

He's also glad he met Trott, Smith; the duo of organised chaos in his life. He feels a devotion to them he's certain he's never before, and will never after them. He knows there will be an after; there will come the time they go their separate ways - it's inevitable. The thought sobers him. But he knows it's true. There's only so long they'll be teenagers, only so long they can try to force blessed ignorance of their futures upon themselves. Ross doesn't want to plan for a career, a family - a wife and a child hold no appeal to him - and yet, it's expected of him. 

He feels like he already has one a family. Knows if he ever put it to words, he could be attacked, derided, maybe killed, if the wrong people heard him.

It's okay though, he's come to terms with himself. He doesn't know where he'd be now anyway if he'd never gone to Zoey and Fiona's diner that Friday. A year. How has it been a year? Ross shakes his head where he's sat on the kerb in front of his current home, legs planted apart and elbows resting on knees, hands dangling between. He has his head bowed forward, and the chill of the air along with his relative peace, the loneliness he's permitted to feel with nobody around, makes his mind turn over, considering things he doesn't want to think about. He feels the lurch of his stomach as it's wont to do when he thinks about things that make him nervous - sure, it's a natural human reaction, fight or flight, the release of adrenaline, but he feels awful. 

He traces shadows of branches from the half-bared trees where golden light skims through to the dark asphalt of the road. By focusing solely on the areas of light, dark, the highlights on the edges of the roads's texture, Ross is able to get lost in what he sees, to ignore, for the time being the worries bubbling in the back of his mind. He hears the growl of two engines getting closer, knows the rugged symphony, and the individuality of the sounds, as he would the riders' voices. 

He watches as they approach at a measured pace, jackets shining, hair windswept, and his heart lurches as it always has at seeing them, his mind, as always, drawn to their frames, their postures, how good they look as the pull up towards him. And he sees the grins - no longer lecherous as they were in the early days, no longer feigned innuendo barely hiding the barely concealed desire - but wholly genuine. Trott's vaulted off his bike quick, not bothering to switch the engine off, while Smith remains on his, watching with a quietness which piques Ross' attention, makes a little insecurity well in his mind.

This isn't their normal routine where they stop, chat, then head off with Ross riding on the back of Smith's to find somewhere to teach Ross. He can feel anticipation, nerves, rolling off the brunet, no matter how well-schooled his expression is. Ross has known him, been so close to him, for too long.

"Come on, sunshine." Trott proffers his hand to Ross, their combined effort pulling him to standing in a fluid shared movement. Trott doesn't step back, stays just a touch too close for what's considered acceptable in their society. Ross feels an almost physical compulsion to step back, but he resists - it takes all his willpower, but he resists - and the brunet smiles up at him in reassurance, sweet, warm. It makes Ross ache.

He's led by a broad palm pressed just above the small of his back, steering him inexorably towards the bike, before stepping in front of Ross, hands resting lightly on his upper arms to halt him. "Mate, we're doing something different today." Ross tilts his head, still unsure, but waits for the rest of what Trott will say. 

"Look, we both think you're capable to drive on your own now. You've driven with each of us, you've driven on your own with us guiding you - now we know you're able to drive along with us." The shorter man turns to Smith, who nods at Ross in agreement, face blank of expression in his seriousness. Ross' stomach clenches. He feels like he might be sick. He doesn't... doesn't think he can do it. He'll crash, ruin Trott's bike - and Lord knows what he did to get that bike. Trott's so private about his family, about what they're like, but there have been instances, numerous, small, where he's got the idea of what it's like. Not good is an understatement. He can't ride Trott's bike.

Ross begins to shake his head, is about to part his lips and utter some excuse to get them to just stick with their normal routine, the one constant he can rely on them having, but he looks to Trott and Trott looks to him. One word. That's all the brunet needs to say to set Ross crumbling. "Please?"

He can't go against this - there's a desperate light in those deep eyes - god those eyes, they're flushed hazel in the golden light - and Ross has to say yes. His voice catches in his throat. He can only nod. He can't properly swallow, walks in a daze towards the bike, situates himself on it carefully as he would a wild animal. He knows it's just as capable of killing him. His heart's pounding as he watches the brunet rake his hair out of his face in a jagged movement, tip his head back to briefly breathe in then out, before he stalks over to Smith, smoothly swings a leg up and seats himself behind the taller man.

They turn to check Ross is okay, then move off. It's not as bad as he thinks it should be, but it's always like this. And after just under a year of being taught by the two, really, he should've expected he could do it. Trott's bike is nippier than Smith's, more agile and easily steered, with a smaller engine but more kick because of its smaller frame. Ross respects it though, just as they've taught him to. The pair ahead of them are driving slow, aware of Ross' self-consciousness, his perfectionism. He wants to get everything right so badly it hinders him. 

After a few minutes, Ross relaxes minutely. Not his brain - he is well-aware you can't be lax, careless, with this stuff - but the line of his shoulders, his arms, become softer. It feels more comfortable, and then more enjoyable. He's finally able to properly take in the extra details of the landscape around him, now his focus isn't solely on the bike and following his friends. He notes that they're following the main roads to the winding course that leads to the coastal road, that the sun is in the process of setting, ahead and to the left of them, lighting the scenery around him into fiery hues. 

The combination of motion and wind elevates his spirits. He always forgets that he enjoys it. Always. It's never as bad as he assumes it will be.

They continue onward, autumnal light lowering in steady increments to the horizon. Streaked cloud to his right is edged an almost fluorescent pink which blends through to orange. So fucking pretty, Ross can barely stand it. It's not often he notices the world around him, actually takes it in. He supposes everyone grows immune to it to some degree.

They're almost at the long, smooth coastal road, now. It just about traces the progress of the sharp cliffs, though set a good distance further inland, to reduce accidents. They pull out onto it, and due to the hour, the time of day, it's deserted. Ross has to admit a certain awe he feels watching the two in front of him as they pull out from the junction. They've been riding far longer than him, it's plain to see, but the apparent effortlessness of their tandem effort amazes him. They've been together so long. Work together so well. Why do they want him? 

He doesn't know that he'll ever get an answer to this.

They follow the road for a couple minutes more, the sun having nearly fallen to brush the horizon in brilliant orange, distorted into an oval, and enlarged, by the atmosphere. Stars are beginning to speck the sky as night unfurls in noble shades of deep blue behind them. They slow where the land spits out more prominently into the ocean, a large lick of grassy land. There's an indent for sightseers to pull in their cars, but it's equally as empty as the road, so they pull their bikes in with ease. When both engines are switched off, all Ross can hear is the fricatives of the waves, all he can feel the cool of the breeze.

He looks to the two other men, laughs with a giddiness he can't remember feeling for a while. They're in the midst of untangling themselves, but look to him at the sound, their answering smiles sweet and full of joy at hearing genuine happiness from the other man. He's in a privileged position, he realises, to see these two so laid back, so happy. He lurches from the bike towards them, and emboldened by the rush in his blood, pulls them close into a hug, brushes his lips as chastely as he can across their cheeks, the corner of their lips. They both realise he's still uncomfortable showing affection in public even as deserted as it is, but it's an understandable paranoia.

They move apart a couple beats later, and the two lead him carefully to a large, flat jut of stone in the middle of the grass. Around it, the grass is sparse, ground eroded by many pairs of feet to a yellowish dustiness. They bid that Ross waits on the rock, and he sits waiting to see what they're going to do. He's never been here himself, but judging by their familiarity, it means something to them. He feel honoured.

They pull out multiple objects from the compartments under their seats. Smith carries two large bundles stuffed tightly under one arm, and a flask in the hand of his other arm. As he draws closer, the bundles resolve into a towel and blanket. Ross moves to a stand from his cold perch, and helps lay the towel flat on the ground. The wind blowing in from the sea is cooling further as the sun sets, a gelidness creeping into it. It's turning into the type of wind that saps you if you stand or sit still in it for too long, and Ross is already feeling it. He shivers, notes the concerned look Smith throws at him in response. He's glad they'll be sitting in the shelter offered by the rock. 

The sky is a brilliant swatch of royal blues to the liquid amber of the sun's light, and Ross pivots to observe it, cold as he is. He can see so many stars already, even with there still being enough light cast by the sun to see by. He hears footsteps, turns back to see Trott walking slowly, almost with a touch of caution, towards them. In his arms there is a second blanket, and a folded leather jacket.

Trott's wearing his, though. As is Smith.

The brunet smiles reassuringly, offers it to Ross from where it sits, neat, on top of the blanket. Shit. The meaning to this is enough to make Ross' head spin. He almost gasps, bites it back. Darts his eyes to the other two men's to check it's serious, it's not some perverse idea of a joke; and of course he is met by anxious yet hopeful smiles - they'd sooner sell their bikes before they'd fuck Ross over.

He reaches out with shaking fingers to lift it from the pile. The jacket is heavy in his hands. The leather's softened by wear, scuffed at the elbows and cuffs, the rest of it dulled to a shade just paler than black. Now he can feels its weight, he has to take another step back, understand the symbolism this has. 

This isn't like trying on Smith's jacket those months ago, where he could feel how the shape wasn't of him, for him. This one's well used, decently cared for, in need of some love but not beyond repair. Ross likes that it's battered, that it's seen the world and is still holding together. It's like them. He holds it up, sees how good the fit is. He guesses they probably tried it on Smith to get a rough idea of the fit. The zip is asymmetrical, a surprisingly style-conscious choice, and he immediately finds himself liking it. 

There's the remains of some form of insignia on the back, a small patch of it on the front over where his heart would be, cracked flecks of paint dispersed like constellations. And he likes that too, the ambiguousness of the symbol. Each of them have whatever kind of jacket they could get their hands on, and it suits them. Ragtag, disparate, and yet somehow perfectly matched. Ross hefts it, beaming, and pulls it on, feels the coolness against his skin until it warms to match his. 

It's twilight now, dusk heavy in the air. They seat themselves on the towel in a tangle of limbs, Ross in the centre, the other two plastered to his sides and wonderfully warm. One blanket is pulled around and behind them, an extra layer between them and the stone that shields them. The other is draped over their laps as they huddle. Smith's flask turns out to be a godsend, filled with hot tea, and they drain the entire thing. There's a single cup which doubles as a cap over the lid of the flask, but they don't mind sharing.

They watch night fall fully, point out patterns they see in the heavens, observe the shift in blue of the enveloping hemisphere. The sea behind them is dulled by the rock, distant, relaxing, and pressed between the twin warmths of his friends, the people he feels most comfortable with, Ross thinks he could fall asleep right here.


End file.
